“The tiger’s rising,” the mist told the chapeland the chapel told the saint inside“The tiger comes,” she saidand the saintno morethan a rosebush highand two fence posts wide cried aloud in delightor fearit was never known whichor whether it was bothand he took his tapers and fled belowto the sepulcheramong the bonesof lords and ladiesclutching their rosariesdrinking their teaand rotting beneaththe green sickly moon tonightthe stars gaspingand the mist dancing foxtrot upon the belfryin taffeta and a tippetthe whippet hounds howling high“O’ holy night, the Christ child comes,”sang the saint in the sepulcherwith his hands ‘round his hymn bookand a cross ‘round his throatand then the tiger rosesilent as the snowand ate the mist in the churchyardso the chapel stood unshroudedbright and shininga song rising from her bowelsthe saint still singing, weeping“Hallelujah, hallelujah, tonight is Christmas Eve.”the holly leaves fluttered outfrom the doorframeand came the tiger through the pewsto kneel before the virgin motherand the saint ascended from the sepulcher and drew a sharp breathin delight or fearit was never known whichor whether it was bothand the tiger turnedand the saint bowedand all around the lightglowing goldenheaven openingpouring down like embersburningand then the lights went outsnuffed blackthe saint stumbled backdown the stepsthe chapel’s mouth, gapingswallowed himand on the stones the ice is formingfar above, the tiger risingthe saint is sleeping, silent babeupon the stoneupon the grave